Aftermath
by switchbladexfights
Summary: It takes him three weeks to track Erik down, after Alcatraz. JohnErik PyroMagneto.
1. Aftermath

It takes him three weeks to track Erik down, after what happened at Alcatraz. Even when St. John pulls out all the stops, goes to all of his contacts, it's still infuriatingly difficult to find the old man. He dyes his hair, dark again and takes the Greyhound until his money runs out, hitchhikes the rest of the way.

The house is a big Brownstone, the kind that reeks of old money, inside and out. Here, Erik just looks like another aged, eccentric aristocrat and John can't even imagine how he can afford the place.

Erik isn't surprised to see him but then, John didn't think he would be. Somehow, even now, he looks so powerful and unflappable and John thinks that maybe, that's why he's here. That's what draws him to him. He looks older though, and tireder. Weary. John supposes that he does too, the same blank, dead-eyed look that he see's on Erik as they stand on the porch.

They stay like that for a while and John wonders if Erik is going to let him in. It seems like forever that they stand there, in the silent dead-lock but they're both too exhausted for arguments and as John makes to leave, there's a hand on his arm, old and thin, but strong and he hears the voice that he's been aching for, that he needs to hear,

"I thought you might come," It's a voice that still has the force of iron behind it and to John, it's as magnetic as it ever was "Inside, dear boy, inside."

The sitting room (Erik call it the 'Parlour') has leather sofas and wood panelled walls. It reminds John of the Professor's study, back at Westchester and it's disconcerting. His fingers tap a nervous staccato against his knee because he thinks playing with his lighter might be inappropriate. Erik sits down next to him, but not close, and sighs.

"How did you find me?"

Everything that John wants to say is stuck in his throat and he can't swallow it or cough it up, so he shrugs and answers the question.

"One of the psychics you introduced me to, they gave me the heads up that you were here." It's the first time that he's spoken in a day, a day and a half and he sounds hoarse so he takes a drink of the tea that Erik has made him. It's earl grey, black with honey, exactly the way that he used to take it and he didn't even ask. For some reason, the gesture makes his hands shake. Erik sighs again and puts one of his hands on John's knee. It's only to stop him fidgeting, but he moves into the touch like it's the centre of his world.

"I only made a few mistakes in this war," Erik says "The biggest one was you."

And that hurts. John pulls away, stands up and he thinks that this must be how Julius Caesar felt, when he saw Brutus with the knife.

"Do you want me to leave?" This was a mistake. He's got money in his pocket, from sucking off some middle aged family man, in a truck stop bathroom, just outside of Pittsburgh, while the guys wife and kids were outside in his RV. It's enough to get him back home, wherever that is now but then those fingers are on his arm again, pulling him back down, closer than before.

"I don't want you to leave, St. John." Erik doesn't call him Pyro anymore, the same way that he can't think of Erik as Magneto. Pyro and Magneto got left behind on whatever remains of Alcatraz island and John only see's them when he dreams of noise and fire and death "That's not what I meant."

John's confused and he's regretting ever really coming here but at the same time, he knows that he had to. When Erik speaks again, he sounds as weary as he looks.

"I don't regret what I did, John. I still believe that I was right and this, this only proves it. What I do regret is that you had to be involved. All I wanted, was a world free from fear and hatred and persecution for me, and you and everyone like us. I wanted to show then that you couldn't cure us." The old man's voice is so raw and frail and sad that John leans against him, curls up against his side, his head almost in his lap "I wanted all of that for you but I failed. I ruined you. Now all you'll ever know is the fear, or the cure. You'll never be free of it. You needed someone to look to and it shouldn't have been me, It never should have been me."

John pulls Erik's arm across and traces the spot where he knows the faded blue numbers are, underneath the stark, white Oxford cotton and he says, "I wanted it to be you."

Erik's hands are in his hair, stroking and smoothing and he sounds so choked.

"I can't lead you anymore, John. I can't protect you. I'm not like you."

John smiles and his hand reaches and he laces fingers through those old and thin, but strong ones and somehow, he feels completed.

"It doesn't matter anymore," He mumbles, into the crook of Erik's elbow, as Erik sighs again "This is all that matters now."


	2. Square One

It takes him three months to track John down, after what happens on Alcatraz. With both the Professor and Dr. Grey gone, psychic assistance is pretty thin on the ground at Westchester and there's certainly none to spare to help search for a borderline-psychopathic traitor, who may or may not be alive. He does it the old fashioned way, follows all the clues and keeps his ear to the ground, and after three months, he finds him. He takes his Ford and makes one stop overnight, at a motel that feels like it still belongs in the seventies, with a plastic-coated mattress.

The house is a surprise, big and old and grand. He'd been expecting a tiny box apartment on the wrong side of the tracks and he wonders at first whether he's got the address wrong. He double checks it, triples checks it. It's definitely right and not for the first time, Bobby really wonders why he's here.

He knocks on the door three times and when it swings open, he tells himself that he's surprised even though really, it isn't that much of a shock. Magneto. He'd seen the way that John looked at his king, last time they'd seen each other, when he left his (ex) best friend for dead. He'd seen the adoration and the trust and the way that John actually listened to him, waited for his approval. He coughs, and shuffles his feet, giving the old man what he hopes is a winning smile.

"Um, hi."

Magneto manages to look pretty unsurprised because Bobby knows that having an X-Man turn up on his undercover doorstep and grin at him is a fairly irregular event. Magneto, he looks a little greyer, but not as much as Bobby expected. He can't ever remember seeing the man out of his cloak and helmet, so the sight of him in jeans and a loose cotton shirt is pretty surreal.

"Mr. Drake," Magneto nods politely, but Bobby hears the underlying question in that firm, unwavering voice. It's saying exactly the same thing as his conscience, _what are you doing here?_ "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

It's really, really admirable the way he keeps his control, and Bobby respects that. He just keeps smiling and it's starting to make his jaw ache. He's been searching for three months and now that he's found them, he can't for the life of him think what to say.

"I was wondering, is Jo-" He cuts off midway, when he realizes that he doesn't know what to call his friend anymore. He remembers the conversation that he overheard _'What's your real name John?' _and he sighs "Is Pyro here?"

Magneto's lips, they curve into a smirk and he raises one of those thin, shaped grey brows, "Ah, I see." He says, and Bobby can almost hear that same smirk in his voice "I'm afraid that St. John isn't here."

And Bobby he's not sure if Magneto's lying to him. Maybe he doesn't want to let Bobby see John. Or maybe John doesn't want to see him. The latter seems likely but it makes Bobby's heart sting to think it might be true. He turns around to leave, starts to move off and then there are brittle fingers on his shoulder and he has to concentrate on keeping back the frost that threatens to cover his hands at that unwelcome touch.

"John's stepped out for a little bit, Robert." No one calls him Robert anymore, not since his mother and it sounds so peculiar coming from this old man, the one he used to think of as the enemy. He turns around to face him again, and lowers his eyes at the sympathetic smile on Magneto's face "Would you like me to tell him you called? Or would you like to come in and wait? He shouldn't be too long."

It's terrifying how domesticated Magneto sounds. Three months ago, he tore the Golden Gate Bridge off its foundations and relocated it across to Alcatraz Island, just because he could. Now he's acting like a parent talking to his kid's crush. Making sure he doesn't look too slack-jawed, he debates the probability of John ever getting back to him if he just leaves a number. He calculates it at somewhere between slim and none. Then again, the prospect of waiting around for a boy that probably hates him with a man who started a war three months ago was equally as unappealing. The latter eventually won out as Bobby reasons, 'He can't hurt me anymore' when what he really means is 'I need some closure'. He shrugs and steps onto the porch as Magneto begins to retreat back into the house.

"I'll wait I think, if you don't mind."

It's uncomfortable, the long spans of silence between them. Bobby has entirely no idea what to do and what to talk about. When he call's the old man Magneto, he's met with a visible flinch and the curt response of 'It's Erik.'. He realizes that he never knew the man's real name before. When it feels that they've reached some kind of equilibrium (Bobby studiously avoiding the discussion of mutations and Erik deigning not to bring up Professor Xavier, or Dr. Grey, or Scott) their small talk is stilted but not as laboured as Bobby expected and it makes the surreal feeling shake him again. It's at this point that the figurative shit, hits the fan.

Both of them look up from their cups of tea as they hear the click of the door opening and heavy footsteps against the wooden floorboards in the hall. Bobby places his cup on the table and let's his hands rest on his knee's, his fingers clutching at them so tightly it hurts as the sound of a too familiar voice drifts closer to the parlour.

"Erik? You wouldn't believe how busy it is out today! There isn't some kind of holiday is there? The store was practically sold out so I had to go all the way to that market three blocks away," The parlour-door swings open and Bobby doesn't look up, but the voice is so clear now. The faded traces of the Australian twang hidden underneath the rapid New York drawl. St. John clearly hasn't noticed him yet, as he carries on talking "I had to get shallots instead of spring onions too, because they didn't look so good at the market. I stopped by the bakery on the way back though, and got some of those-" John stops dead in the middle of what he was saying and Bobby hears the slow, shuddering intake of breath "…What's he doing here?" It's a hiss, and Bobby knows it's directed at Magneto, not him, but he looks up anyway.

If Magneto looks older than the last time he saw him, John looks younger to Bobby. It might be the way that his hair is darker again, and not so spiky. It's grown out and it's falling in his eyes again, the way it always used to when it was in good need of a cut. It might have been the fact that the wrist-lighter and the boots and the combats are missing, replaced by a loose t-shirt and old sneakers and faded jeans with a small, rectangular shaped lump in the pocket, which John's hand automatically strays to. Or it might just be the way that before his eyes narrowed at Bobby, before a scowl found it's way onto those perfect lips, he actually looked genuinely happy. He's carrying two large brown bags and he sets them down on the sofa, a smaller bag of what is presumably shallots spilling out from the top of one of the larger ones. He places one hand on his hip and turns to glare at Magneto. Bobby has the common decency to look away again, as he begins to flush.

"Erik," John's voice is softer now, with a slightly pleading note to it "Why is here?"


	3. Patchwork

It takes him about thirty seconds to get sick of waiting for an answer.

"What's he doing here?" He repeats the question to Erik again but he doesn't answer, only smiles in that knowing (condescending) way that he has. To be honest, John wouldn't have put it past the manipulative fucker to have set this all up but he doesn't like being ignored and his palms are starting to itch as one clammy hand slides over the lump in his pocket, aching for the feel of cool, smooth metal. Bobby coughs softly, clear his throat, and John whirls around and finally acknowledges that the other boy is actually in the room. Bobby isn't looking at him, he's staring studiously into his teacup (John wonders if Erik made it the way that Bobby used to like it – too milky and with so much sugar that it was gritty to drink), looking flushed. He doesn't look older, but he looks like he's grown. He looks mature and, John admits grudgingly, he looks good. He narrows his eyes at Bobby, and the hand that isn't on his lighter, it finds it's way to his hip. He looks petulant, he knows, but this is beyond a fucking joke.

"What the fuck are you doing here Drake?" He snarls, and Bobby looks uncomfortable. He mutters something totally incomprehensible and John steps forward, slides a hand into his pocket but then he feels strong fingers curl around his wrist and pull him back. He knows that his pulse is racing a mile a minute, which explains the gentle, soothing patterns that those long fingers trace against the unbearably soft skin. Erik is forever grounding him like that. He stills under the touch and as he lets out a weary, shuddering sigh, Bobby looks up at him and Erik starts to talk.

"I believe that young Mr. Drake here wanted to speak to you John," Erik's hand tugs him down so he's sitting opposite Bobby, and he stops himself from burning something by concentrating on the regular, even strokes of Erik's fingers on his wrist "I'll leave you two to talk, shall I?" Erik stands, and stops the lulling rhythm. Bobby looks relieved that Erik is leaving the room, but all John can feel is the rising heat.

"No, you don't have to go," He hears himself say it before he even thinks about it and he grabs hold of Erik's hand, relishing the little muted gasp from Bobby. He holds tight, like he's refusing to let go "Stay. Whatever he wants to say, he can say it with you here."

Bobby looks aghast and Erik looks touched. The older man squeezes his hand reassuringly, then gently pries his fingers away. The hand comes to rest on his shoulder and Erik smiles knowingly/condescendingly. He bends and picks up the grocery bags off the sofa.

"No dear boy, I think that I may be making your friend rather uncomfortable. At any rate, someone needs to start dinner. These shallots won't chop themselves. Do let me know how many I'll be cooking for though, okay?"

Erik brushes past Bobby, into the kitchen and John really, really wants to follow him. He doesn't know how to talk to Bobby anymore, doesn't even know why the other boy is here. He hasn't been this confused in two months and one week and it makes his chest tighten. The silence between them stretches longer this time. John counts to forty-five before he gets bored of waiting and snaps "Fucking spit it out, _Iceman_ and tell me what the hell you're doing here, okay? I can't be bothered with guessing anymore."

Bobby looks conflicted, like he's deciding how to sugar coat whatever it is that he's got to say, the phrase that's the least likely to get him burned. Eventually, he coughs again and when he looks up, troubled blue eyes meet shuttered hazel ones.

"I suppose I just wanted to see how you are," It sounds like Bobby's asking the question as much to himself as he is to John as pale fingers that John could map as well as his own fidget with the rim of his tea cup "I mean, to see if you were okay."

John snorts. Bobby went to all of the trouble (and it must have been trouble because him and Erik have hardly been broadcasting their whereabouts and not many people know about this house anyway, especially people than any good X-Man should know) to see how he was doing? He chooses his words carefully, but he isn't hedging like Bobby. He's working out exactly what would hurt the other boy the most to hear.

"What you mean is Bobby; you wanted to make sure that you didn't kill me. You want to see the scar you left? It's pretty neat." John pushes back his bangs and he sees' Bobby flinch at the sight of the faint pink scar that spreads the way across most of his forehead and like the gasp, he revels in it, in some perverse way. He isn't done yet though, not by a long shot "It isn't the first time you've marked me, right Bobby? But I guess this ones gonna last the longest. Anyway, you must be gutted that you didn't manage it. Or is that why you're really here, to finish the job? I mean, to check up on me? That's a lame excuse, even for you. They don't have phones in Westchester anymore?"

In his head, he sounds like one of those cartoon supervillians, monologuing. But his lexical choice is clearly having an effect on Bobby, as he watches all the colour drain from the other boy's already pale face and as his mouth drops open, John can already see all the excuses and platitudes rushing into his mouth. He pulls his lighter out of his pocket, partly to see if the rhythm it gives him is as comforting as the one Erik created against his skin, partly for nostalgia's sake. A proper conversation between the pair of them wouldn't be the same without the interruption of scraping metal and lighter fluid, and he waits for Bobby's real explanation. He isn't disappointed.

"Christ Johnny," He sounds choked, and John hasn't heard his name like that in a while. Johnny's even more buried than Pyro is now "I didn't mean to hurt you so bad, I still can't believe I did it…I shouldn't have," He pauses, guilty.

"Why the fuck shouldn't you have? We were on opposite sides Drake. That's what happens in a war, casualties. You should have killed me."

Whatever Bobby says next, John can't make it out. It's either 'cause he's babbling, or that John just doesn't care but he's fairly sure that it's a load of bullshit. Something about forgiveness and friendship and remorse. It sounds like white noise with the occasional fragments of words mixed up with the self righteous blah blah blah but John catches the end and it's enough to make him laugh "so sorry, I came to bring you home."

He rolls his eyes at Bobby, and snatches his hand away as the other boy tries to take hold of it.

"What the fuck are you talking about? I am home."


End file.
